A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 2: Territorial Challenges
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 2: Territorial Challenges - Stan and Lisa throw a Halloween party, inviting half the school. At first, only their best friends, Wesley and Carol, show up about the time the foursome thinks the party’s a bust, four blacks arrive. Justus, Elijah, Jasmine, and Destiny soon take control and introduce the whites to a BNWO Halloween.
Caution: This Suspense Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Horror Cuckold DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male White Female Cream Pie Oral Sex
Thriller, by Michael Jackson, throbs harder in the next minute. Someone jacks up the volume, maybe Destiny, because she likes the way the sound fills the apartment. The air goes thick with the smell of vodka and fake fog.
All the cheap decorations droop now, sweat and heat wilting crepe and plastic. No one even looks at the pumpkins anymore. The room’s real reason for being there stands pressed together on the couch, and no one’s pretending.
Never one to tread carefully, Elijah doesn’t hesitate, slides beside Lisa, their thighs flush. The white of her stockings almost glows against the deep, high-yellow of his skin. A golden god and his pale, Arian slave.
A hand grazes her knee, upward, skirt bunches higher until the hem flips close to her panties. Breathing slow and measured right into the shell of her ear, he leans in.
“That sexy, witch dress should come with a warning,” he tells her, voice so low even the music can’t hide his intent. Intense and startled, Lisa giggles. Her fingers fly to her lap and bounce off, not bothering to cover herself this time.
The way Elijah places his hand on her lower back, it doesn’t seem like she could get away if she tried. Possessively, his grasp spreads, thumb pressing through the thin white cotton of her panties. Lisa twists, caught between embarrassment and wanting. The nurse’s hat slips sideways, almost falls.
Elijah catches it before it hits the floor and sets it just so, patting her hair. The whole movement says he owns the space—he possesses her, too, if he wants. A dark spot blooms on her crotch.
This moisture isn’t unnoticed. Stan stares, doesn’t blink. The party came from his hands. Those cobwebs, those pumpkins, even the playlist, he’s doing. Now every inch hijacked by the newcomers—by Elijah. The vampire cape hangs limp off his shoulders. Fangs dig, plastic cuts into his gums. Shoving the pain down, but it burns Stan anyway.
And his girl, Lisa, doesn’t so much as glance at him.
Lisa’s face turns almost pink. Eyes go glassy; she doesn’t even make believe her focus isn’t on the snack table. Slick as the vodka on her tongue, Elijah’s voice melts in her ear. Each time he leans in, her chest rises. Her laugh goes breathless, little bursts of sound she can’t seem to stop. The dress rides higher with every wiggle.
Elijah’s hand follows her jiggle, always a step ahead.
Destiny circles the edge, listening, not watching, gathering data. With her tail knocking over another empty cup, Jasmine sprawls on the couch. But she only grins, eyes tracking the movements between Lisa and Elijah.
Everybody knows Lisa’s lost and Elijah’s won.
Near the drinks, Justus doesn’t waste a second. Arm sweeps Carol into the dim, cleared space by the TV, a patch of open floor nobody decorated. He doesn’t ask. Guides her—one hand wrapped around her waist, heavy fingers locked on her hip. The other hand squeezes her palm, pulls her close.
And Justus doesn’t move like a man in costume.
The sword, the shield, the leather bands, everything molds to his body, making him appear larger, more dangerous than ever. Carol stumbles against him, but Justus doesn’t let her trip, catches her, holds on, and moves in for the kill.
The music fits—Jackson’s monster hit, but Justus ignores the beat. Slowing the entire room down, like he shapes time however he wants.
When Carol folds into him, curves matching the armor, her head tilts so her hair hangs down. Her witch hat wobbles, threatens to fall, but Justus tucks it back onto her scalp, careful but not gentle.
Carol’s hands float—first, they hover at his chest, not sure what to do. Her fingers twitch over the straps, brush the buckle, then grip tighter, nails leaving marks. She can’t decide to push him away or pull him closer.
When her cheeks flush, the freckles stand out even in the dark. Not a single word escapes her mouth, shivery, little breaths every time Justus’s hips pin her to his leg.
Wesley can’t handle it. He remains stock-still behind the punch, eyes watery but furious. Each time Justus spins Carol, Wesley grinds his teeth together. His drink forgotten, all focus lands on where Carol’s hips press into Justus’s hand, or how the witch dress clings to her curves.
The werewolf ears feel stupid, and even the foil claws seem lame. Each time Justus pulls Carol closer, Wesley’s knuckles bleach bone-white. He tries to speak, but nothing happens.
The couch sags with Jasmine and her tail, and next to her, Destiny leans on the wall, arms folded, eyes on Stan. They wait. Stan doesn’t fight it. He tracks Lisa’s lips, the way Elijah’s hand never leaves her skin, the look of Lisa melting with every word whispered in her ear.
Lisa doesn’t even look confused anymore. The first giggle seemed forced—now, she’s following Elijah’s lead. Her knees drift apart, and Elijah moves his palm higher, fingertips slipping past the hem and tracing the inside of her thigh.
Lisa’s breath stops. She rocks her hips up enough to invite him in, then squeaks at her boldness, covering her mouth.
Elijah doesn’t mock her. Grins broad and hungry, and dips his face close until their noses nearly brush.
“You get off on people staring? Or do you only like it when I do?” he asks, voice pitched so only Lisa, and a few unlucky listeners nearby, can hear it.
An O forms on her lips, but Lisa can’t form words. Pressing her thighs together, but her hand finds Elijah’s wrist, and she doesn’t push him away.
Taking a deep breath, she sighs, her eyes go glassy. And she mumbles something incoherent.
Finally, Stan moves, but only to press deeper into the kitchen nook. The cape scratches his chin, and the fangs pop loose. But he clamps them tighter, chewing down until blood almost beads on his gums. While he hates himself for it, heat rises in his body. Hates how he can’t look away from Elijah’s hand moving between Lisa’s legs.
When Destiny pours herself another drink, she doesn’t drink it. Swirling the cup, letting the red liquid catch the light.
Understanding exactly how to get attention, Jasmine flicks the panther’s tail. Neither one of them needs to do anything; the room shifts on its own.
Across the small dance floor, Justus wraps Carol in both arms now, cage tight. Deliberately, he tilts her backward, making her lose balance, so she grabs him to stay up. The dance isn’t a dance anymore—it’s more like Justus is showing everyone he does whatever he wishes.
The gold and leather flex when he moves; Carol’s body molds to his, feet barely scraping the floor. The witch’s hat finally drops. Justus catches it, holds it on her back like a trophy.
Eyes gone wide and lost, Carol shivers. Her hands don’t stop moving—she strokes his arm, his chest, and tries to brace herself on the shield. But her body shakes so bad she nearly misses. Sweat beads on her upper lip, a shine that matches the hunger in Justus’s eyes.
The ache crawling up his back, Wesley drags in every detail. He wishes to shout across the room. Desires Carol to break free. But Carol isn’t scared or recoiling. She’s conquered and barely holds her ground. The lust in her eyes makes Wesley sick, but he can’t even move to help.
Finally, Lisa’s words slip through her teeth.
“Elijah—what are you doing?”
But the words are soft. Not angry, not complaining. Elijah laughs, hand slips higher, fingers tracing the edge of her panties through the thin cotton. Quick and high, Lisa moans, and slams her knees shut.
But Elijah pries them open again, slow and easy.
Stan drops the cup. It bounces, rolls under the sink. He notices the puddle of punch but can’t care. All focus drills into Lisa’s lap, Elijah’s hand, and the way Lisa’s breath fogs in the air. Every minute, she inches closer to collapse.
No one tries to look away. Even Destiny seems pleased, soaking up the slow crack in the white boys’ armor.
The song changes, and I Put a Spell on You seeps into the air. Moans and groans of pleasure rush from Lisa, her legs quake, her breasts shake, as she climaxes.
On the dance floor, Carol and Justus lock together. The dance slows to almost nothing. Justus rests his chin on Carol’s shoulder, mouth close to her ear. He whispers—too soft for anyone else—whatever he says makes Carol gasp and her body go slack.
Pleased with her reaction, Justus grins, lets Carol dangle in his arms. And drags her upright and backs her up to the wall, warrior armor scraping the paint. Carol sags, lets herself get pinned.
At this moment, Wesley’s hand twitches, and he wants to intervene. But Justus’s body blocks every path. That smile never softens. It only dares Wesley “do something about it.”
The silence breaks into ugly little pieces. The music can’t hide it. Wesley jerks forward—he can’t watch another second. Carol’s hem hikes higher every minute, her breath short, hands trembling over Justus’s flexed arms.
First, Wesley grabs the witch hat, yanks it up, and tries to wedge himself between Carol and Justus.
“Let her go. Okay? You—you’ve made your point.” The words come out cracked, one octave too high, but Wesley stands his ground.
Justus doesn’t flinch. Spinning Carol up and away makes her skirt flare like a black waterfall, and tucks her behind his shield arm. No hesitation. The space between them vanishes. And Justus blocks every angle, body turned so wide Wesley can’t see around him. Carol teeters, breathless, caught between the two men.
The gold on Justus’s costume pops in the poor party lighting. Every strap on his chest tenses up, like even his clothes side with him. Justus leans in, jaw set, only a fraction taller than Wesley, but he uses every inch.
“She’s enjoying herself,” Justus says. Voice soft as a threat. Wesley tries to push back, but Justus meets him head-on. Leather creaks. Nothing gives.
Palms out, Wesley’s hands shoot up, but his eyes lose the fight before it even starts. Carol peeks over Justus’s shoulder, eyes wide, pulse visible on her neck. She doesn’t speak, not to Wesley.
On the couch, Lisa slumps against Elijah—open, limp, her rucked-up hem to her waist. Elijah cups the back of her thigh, thumb drawing slow circles, never letting Stan out of his sight.
Stan can’t hold back anymore. He slams the cape off his shoulders, fangs clattering to the floor, and plants himself in front of Elijah. “Enough. You need to back off, now. Lisa’s with me.”
Pressure buzzes in his voice. Wants to sound mean, but the heat in his throat cracks every word. Balling his fists, he refuses to look at Lisa’s legs—exposed, inviting, not his anymore.
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